


Baptised in Ice, Condemned in Flames.

by Natakova



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, Introspection, POV Clint Barton, Self Harm, Stream of Consciousness, pre SHIELD, pre blackhawk, pre partnership, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natakova/pseuds/Natakova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had always been a spectacle, a sight to behold that drove many mad; lust or insanity. </p><p>Agent Barton is on the hunt for the illusive Black Widow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baptised in Ice, Condemned in Flames.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post of any form of fanfiction on the internet. Any sort of critic or feedback is greatly appreciated.

She is not a killer, no, that is far too uncivilised a term to be pinned on a woman such as her. She is an artist of a different kind. Yes she kills, but the art in her work is so profound that it can never be deemed a crime. Her art is fleeting, an extension of herself. It is there one second and gone the next, leaving behind no explanation.

An artist she is but wield a brush she does not. Her tools take many forms; the elegant curve of her smile, the arch of her back and the line of her neck are all as deadly as the sharpest blade or most piercing bullet.

While red is the primary colour of her work it is one the she holds in contempt. But she admires its skill and purpose, the way which it stains every surface and remains forever in the cracks and crevices; lost remnants of master pieces. 

They say to watch any artist at work is a true wonder. To watch as the images that plague their minds become an often frightening reality. She is no exception. Her skills are so finely tuned, so narrowly perfected that she appears to completely give herself over to the work, lost in the deadly game that she alone has mastered.

Then she reawakens, as stark and as sudden as breaking through the surface of water. Sometimes she will admire her work, the crimson masterpiece causing her lips to curve into a smile. The flecks of red on her alabaster skin following the movement. But at others she will barely honour her efforts with a glance, choosing instead to retreat into herself and away from prying eyes.

It is the times such as these that something akin to metamorphosis occurs. The heart breaking beauty is blinding. She sheds her skin in the pale moonlight in the safety of her shelter, the artist being cast aside until it is of use again. Believing herself to be alone with only the stars to witness this change she enters the bathroom to begin her rituals. Sinking down into the water a faint sigh passes her lips; glaringly audible in the silence of her keep. As the seconds tick by the pure innocence of the cleansing water becomes tainted, marred by her actions of that night and countless others before. The subtle rose explodes into scarlet; her own sacrifice to the fading art.

This is a lapse of her meticulously balanced control, this is something that can only be gathered from watching her develop and grow. As with everything she handles this lapse with cool efficiency. In the face of homemade stiches she has never winced once. 

The passing minutes drag into hours but watching her makes time seem irrelevant. Dressing in familiar rags (these are hers for certain, the artist settles for no less than designer quality) she retreats into a bed, arming herself beneath her pillow before losing herself to her own subconscious.

The vulnerability presented here is the perfect time to strike. It would be quick, easy and would pass in a second. But she deserves more. To remove her from this world in such a cowardly fashion would condemn any soul. A woman such as her is a marvel, a force of nature that can never truly be destroyed. Her physical presence can be taken and burned but the influence she would leave behind would only cause her to grow into a legend instead of mere whispers in the dark.

Slipping back into the night is the only way forward. To have seen her work and undisclosed innocence first hand is more than any other can possibly claim. If death chooses to claim her then so be it, but the news will reach those it needs to and they will not be the cause.

When that moment comes, if it ever does, the world will lose a truly remarkable woman. Baptised in ice and condemned in flames.


End file.
